


Prologue: The Winds of Winter

by sansaswildlinglover



Series: Heartlines [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Prologue, but with Jonsa and pol!Jon goggles it's easy to see through it, jonerys if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-14 23:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18062417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaswildlinglover/pseuds/sansaswildlinglover
Summary: “What is honour compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms … or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.”Jon VIII, A Game of ThronesNorth and north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain.  He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks.Bran III , A Game of ThronesMy personal take on season 8, will be a series consisting of 8 parts: a prologue, 6 'episodes', and an epilogue.Prologue starts pre-boatbang, examining Jon's mindset, followed by 3ER Bran in vision mode, giving you a taste of what's coming.





	Prologue: The Winds of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> You might notice I'll be reusing parts of dialogue from other fics and incorporating past oneshots. I've explored some ideas of what might happen in the final season before, but I consider this story as the place where I'm bringing all of it together.

 

**_  Prologue: The Winds of Winter _ **

 

 

> _“What is honour compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms … or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.”_

Jon VIII, _A Game of Thrones_

 

 

> _He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon's breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest._

Jon XIII, _A Dance with Dragons_

 

 

Finally they're on their way North, and finally Jon can breathe again. The rolling of the waves crashing against the hull of the ship that is carrying him home is soothing him. Still he can't stop himself from pacing his cabin. His thoughts drift to her.

What is she going to say? Will she understand? Or will ice sink into his stomach when he sees the disappointment in her eyes? He could explain, but will she listen? _I tried to be smarter than Father, Sansa, I know I need to be smarter than Robb._

None of it should matter, he's just one man, he's only playing his part. But he needs her to understand, he wants to tell her everything, even the things he can't put into words. Her smile and her bright blue eyes appear before his mind's eye. _You are to me. You are._

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to imprint those images and words into his memory. He might never be blessed with them again. He wonders what she's doing. Is she bickering with Arya? Is she brushing Bran's hair from his brow as she tells him a story?

Of course not. His brother is almost a man grown by now. Arya is a woman. Yet it's hard to picture them any different from the scrawny children they used to be. He tries to imagine the three of them together, but all he can see is Sansa.

He flexes his fingers, resisting the urge to punch his fist into the wall. Why does the thought of her smiling up at him and saying he did well fill him with so much joy? Why does he fear her coldness? Why do the imaginary conversations he has with her put him on edge? Sansa twists him in ways no one else can and it scares him.

What if he had those same conversations with Arya? She might tell him he was an idiot, and he'd agree, but he wouldn't fear her rejection. So where lies the difference? Sansa's as much his sister as Arya is. _Is she?_ A pesky voice asks. _Do you love her as you love your other sister?_

 _Enough!_ He can't allow his thoughts to wander that way. Not now, not ever, and now is what he should be focusing on. Daenerys invited him to come to her cabin, to discuss plans privately, she'd said, but he knows what she wants. It's more than he can give, she wants all of him. He's already lost too many parts of himself to be able to, and his heart lies elsewhere, but this much he could give her, if he chooses to cross that line.

If he opens the door and forces one foot over the threshold, and then the other, it will be done. There will be no turning back.

It's not a completely selfless sacrifice, he realizes. Giving in might finally soothe this uneasiness inside of him. It's not that he's not aware this could complicate matters, but everything should be simple now. She's finally completely on his side, they're going to fight the Night King together. It calms him, because as much as part of him is still so tired of fighting, it's what he knows, it's what he's good at.

It's more than that. Daenerys is a flame, burning brighter and hotter than he can handle, but he wants to surrender. With her he could give in to the darkness inside of him without being repulsed by himself, unlike with— _no_ , he won't think of her now, he doesn't want to taint her with his foul desires. He's glad he left the cloak she made for him in his cabin.

Sansa is too pure and gentle a light, unlike Daenerys. She has darkness inside of her as well. He doesn't wish to examine it too closely, because he's afraid of what he might find, it would complicate matters again, and he just needs things to be easy.

They are. They'll fight together and save the world. He'll die again and his family will be safe.

He braces himself, taking another deep breath, and lifts his hand to knock.

 

 _And keep it up_  
_I know you can_  
_Just keep following the heartlines on your hand_ _  
_ _‘Cause I am_

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

> _There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of the light, the children of fire. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows._

Davos II, _A Clash of Kings_

 

 

> _He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise._
> 
> _North and north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain.  He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks._

Bran III _, A Game of Thrones_

The night is eerily quiet, there are no noises to be heard, but Bran wouldn’t notice them anyway. One vision of the past slips into another, and a myriad of possible futures blur together.

He is soaring on strong wings that carry him far away from the spot where his body is rooted at Winterfell’s heart tree, and flying ignites a pleasant tingle inside his belly.

He can’t tell whether he is still travelling across time and space, or if he has simply fallen asleep, but at some point he suddenly hears a soft singing, a faint but sweet echo that resounds across the empty grey sky.

He tries to chase it, tilting his wings to dive down toward the sound. As he approaches the ground, he can spy an enormous weirwood standing atop a lonely hill. Its leaves and twigs have been crisped away, but its roots are strong.

Bran plunges down into the hollow crown of the tree, greeted by a darkness and a musty, but familiar warmth. He draws closer to the singing, and it grows louder and stronger.

That’s where he finds them, nestled in the web woven by the tree’s roots, small and slight, but with large ears and catlike eyes, their skin a dappled brown.

They are calling to him.

 _No,_ he objects. _I don’t want to._

 _You must,_ their voices echo inside his head.

They continue their song, and he knows they expect him to sing along. He can’t  understand the words though. He’s never learned the True Tongue, but he can tell their song is a sad one.

When he closes his eyes, he can see his brother—no his cousin now—sitting next to a fire, listening to a woman singing, a single tear rolling down her cheek. She has a sweet voice, and Bran is reminded of his sister.

“So learn well the words of my song,” she sings. “For when I am gone the singing will fade, and the silence will last long and long.”

 _Join us,_ the voices his head urge him.

 _I can’t,_ he answers.

Tentatively he opens his mouth to start singing along, but he can never find the right words or keep up with the melody. It’s a harmony, but he can’t fit in.

 _I can’t,_ he repeats. _I need..._

A solemn face with green eyes appears before his mind’s eye. _You’re the only thing that matters,_ it told him. _Just look, try harder._

He does.

A weirwood tree stretches out its roots, infiltrating the ground as a murder of crows emerges from its foliage. The world turns white and grey as it ices over until it is met by flames of red, black and green.

Where ice and fire meet, a wall of dragonglass rises from the ground. The earth cracks open and the weirwood’s roots come alive, breaking the ice.

A giant catches a songbird and puts her in a golden cage. A white wolf takes wing and chases him, snarling at a cowering lioness. The lioness allows the wolf to mount her, but he mauls at her throat and the songbird flies out of her cage.

A dragon falls from the sky over a castle built of snow, drowning in mid-air.

He sees a man with an evil eye, cackling as he swings a large sword over his head, darkness spreading across the lands as he mounts an ice dragon.

The snow castle is set alight, and a bear cradles an egg, twisting on its hind legs.

A shadow dances among them, wearing different faces, now a wolf, then a lion, and even a dragon.  

A warrior armoured in gold and sapphires charges at a dragon, a roaring screech piercing the skies.

Beads of crimson are dripping down and a man in black blows a horn. The dead are fighting the undead and a raven pecks at the dragonrider’s eyes with a beak made of dragonglass.

Rays of sunlight filters through the dark clouds as a white raven soars on steady wings and the world turns green again.

 _Is that what will happen?_ Bran asks.

 _Perhaps,_ the singers tell him. _Visions aren’t set in stone_ . _But only if you succeed._

He gulps. _What if I fail?_

There’s a long silence, until a single voice whispers a warning. _Look north._

He glances up and climbs up, up, up, until he is flying through the night air again, turning north. It grows colder, and darker. Bran didn’t think that was possible.

 _Look,_ Jojen whispers. _Open your eyes._

 _I am looking,_ he wants to say, but the words freeze on his tongue.

After several days, or perhaps even weeks, he cannot tell, Bran finally sees a faint light ahead of him. As he comes closer, he can see that it is a pale luminous curtain, alive with a thousand vibrant colours.

He has no memory of ever coming here before, but still this place seems familiar.

He doesn’t slow down, but heads straight for the veil and flies through it. If he were able to find his voice, he would scream.

There is nothing, only a cold darkness, and an emptiness that stretches out on every side of him. The silence is so deafening, it’s piercing his ears.

 _Let me out,_ he begs. _Let me out!_

_Now you know._

Bran opens his eyes, blinking against the faint light that is filtering through the leaves of the heart tree. A hand is clutching his wrist and a pair of large grey eyes are staring into his own.

“They’re here,” Arya whispers.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics from Florence + the Machine's _Heartlines_.
> 
> Chapter 1 of 'episode' 1 will be posted tomorrow!


End file.
